


Prequelle

by Dulcinea



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Dreams vs. Reality, Falling In Love, Gen, M/M, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Oral Sex, Reality Stone (Marvel), Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2020-07-21 07:04:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19997857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dulcinea/pseuds/Dulcinea
Summary: This is the moment of just letting go.The story of Tony Stark and his Stephen Strange, once upon a lifetime.





	1. Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> First multi-chapter fic for this fandom. I haven't written anything since my accident. Really nervous. In this story, Pepper and Tony didn't get together during the 5 years, but they're good friends.

The world saturated grey. Tony blinked a few times to clear his vision, but the ashes kept falling, down his eyelashes, patched up the blood on his soaked cheeks and littered his chapped, torn lips. He knelt on the ground, grinding his teeth together as his glare focused ahead.

Across the field of dirt and debris glittered rusty gold and red, and the being he hated most in the entire Universe smirked, the triumph written on his repulsive face.

Words passed through Thanos’s lips. Tony heard the word ‘inevitable.’ He didn’t possess the energy to laugh and wished to God he did.

Instead, the Infinity Stones rolled up his forearm, up to each individual knuckle. They travelled up his veins, the circuits and his skin as one, pulsing with each movement, until they settled in with a loud _crack_ , and his body _jerked_ and _seized_ as the most awful, horrible _fire_ rolled up his shoulder to his neck, face, and across his collarbones.

He closed his eyes, finding only whiteness behind his lids. An inhuman roar surged through his ears, as powerful as a tempest, _is that me_ , reaching at crescendo, a fever pitch, like the sound of nails on chalkboard and the highest off-pitch distortion from a guitar melding together until it created a cacophony of sounds that didn’t match the nothingness he saw.

He wanted to scream, to cry, to tear off his own arm and claw at his skin and gouge out his eyes and rip his own vocal chords and _please make this stop oh please dear God HELP ME_ —

_“Tony!”_

The sounds stopped. The whiteness snapped away.

Tony gasped, jerking upwards as his eyesight adjusted to the new view.

White walls. A television set. Steel bar at the end of—a bed. Sheets. Steel bars on either side of him. Right arm, burnt up to his neck, wrapped in endless amounts of bandages, propped up on something steel too. Something in his left arm—his veins, tubes, wires, needles, a needle.

His other senses came online little by little as he heard beeping, _paging Dr. Toubian,_ felt cool cotton underneath his left fingertips, tasted smoke and dryness on his tongue, smelled the sterile atmosphere of the room, and—

“You’re okay.”

He turned to his left.

Pepper. Holding his good left wrist. Exhausted and smiling and teary-eyed. Rhodey behind her with Peter Parker, relieved and elated. Captain Carol Danvers off in the corner with Thor, smiling too.

His lips moved as Tony choked out, “W-What happened?”

“You happened,” Pepper said, the wetness in her eyes finally escaping down her cheeks. “You can finally rest.”

The relief swept over him so abruptly, Tony let it out in a long, drown out sigh. He sunk deeper into the soft pillows behind his head, eyelids drifting shut, grateful to find a black void there, not the white from before.

Voices, not godawful sounds, lullabied him to a comfortable sleep. The voices of his loved ones, finally at ease, happy, ready for a new beginning, for a future he helped facilitate. No more Thanos. No more Infinity Stones. The Vanished no longer a concept, just a phrase, a blip in history. Earth was saved. Earth was safe.

But as Tony succumbed to sleep, he heard loud and clear in the darkness the morose drawl of Doctor Strange:

“I’m sorry.”

His dreams bled orange, crimson and gangrene. They disturbed him as he took time recovering in the hospital, causing Tony to toss and turn every night and wake up every other two hours. _PTSD_ , he figured. _It has to be. I know this. I can handle this._ But the dreams didn’t stop, didn’t reprieve him from his ordeal. Pills helped in the beginning week of recovery, comforting blackness returning to Tony’s mind as he slept. But drugs could only go so far. He still dreamt of ashes, blood and crusted skin, mangled steel frames and sometimes, just sometimes, the cacophony of screeching, broken guitar strings.

The reprieve came when he was awake, when he saw his friends and family, when he rehabbed his body with the physical therapist, checked in with his many doctors, consulted on the surgery for his new synthetic right arm, salvaging whatever bone and skin he could. He wanted sleep, actually wished for it for the first time probably in his life, but the dreams didn’t stop. Thanos’s grin, the thin ice clogging his veins, snot and blood and saliva running down his throat. Ungodly pain, ungodly _noise_ , and Tony needed, begged each night for it to end. For his torture to end.

He took the hospital psychiatrist during his second week stay without any pushback. Any help was needed, and Tony wasn’t going to pretend he was a ‘bigger man’ to deal with this alone. He didn’t do Thanos alone. He wasn’t doing PTSD alone. Not again.

Anti-depressants filled his rotation of pills, as well as anti-anxiety medication. A benzo was a benzo, though, and an addict such as himself would find a way to abuse them. Luckily, he had the right friends, as well as (so far) the right mindset to deal with them right. For now.

The Klonopin helped reduce the anxiety, not the dreams. But now, Tony approached his dreams without fear at least. It would take three more weeks and monthly check-ins to tweak the medication to see if his assigned anti-depressants would make a dent in his dilemma, as well as weekly therapy appointments to build his mental health skills.

But the dreams didn’t take away what he had. Beautiful Pepper, running his company and assuring all as well press-wise for the world-saving Iron Man. Stalwart Rhodey, sneaking in Burger King cheeseburgers and large fries whenever he visited. Brilliant Peter and his stories at school, his budding relationship with MJ, what new projects he was working on, and whatever newfangled dessert Aunt May demanded Peter bring with him to Tony.

The world was running just fine, thanks to his friends. The world was finally okay, thanks to him.

Tony looked down at his new synthetic arm. He clenched his fingers a few times, hearing the very faint _wrr_ of machinery.

Underneath that _wrr_ , he heard something else.

_I’m sorry._

Tony closed his eyes.

By the time Tony was cleared to finally leave the hospital, a month and a half had passed and every Avenger and ally had come to visit him, save one. The man he heard in the very few moments he woke up from his ordeal. The man who swore there was no other way, that there was only one outcome where they won, that said, “I’m sorry.” The man he locked eyes with across the battlefield and the man lifted his shaky finger and the man who never came back to check on him or ask how he was doing or even provide an explanation for that sorry he said.

So as much as Pepper and Happy and Rhodey wanted him to head right back to upstate New York and continue resting, Tony had unfinished business to attend to in Greenwich Village.

He slammed his new fist three times against the large, wooden doors. “I know you’re there, Strange! Get your ass out here before I blast my way in!”

To his surprise, the door did open—but it wasn’t who he was looking for. “He’s not here,” Wong said.

“Then I’ll wait.”

“It’ll be a while.”

“I got nothing else better to do than eat bonbons and make my ass fatter, so let me in, Wong.”

“Tony—”

“Hey.” He flashed his synthetic arm. “I think I’ve deserve a bit of a reprieve, hm? The least you can do is let me in, give me a comfy seat, maybe pour me a cup of coffee and the wifi password. Or do I have to make myself come in?”

Wong paused for the briefest of seconds before opening the door further.

Coffee wasn’t around these parts, but Wong did a quick Starbucks run for two (after asking Tony for money). Entertainment wasn’t an issue, despite Wong saying again and again that Strange wouldn’t be in for at least another three hours. He had a TV in what Tony assumed was the living room, a good amount of books to glaze over, and the wifi was pretty fast, considering how old everything looked in this ‘Sanctum,’ so he could YouTube whatever he wanted.

Plus, Wong seemed to appreciate his company at times. Mainly when Tony found some music on the VEVO channel and Wong asked who the artist was, promptly adding it to his Spotify account right after. It killed the time fast, three hours going by, until Tony heard the sound of a _hiss_ , gold sparks appearing five feet away from where he sat.

Out from the portal stepped Doctor Strange, covered head-to-toe in ashes, the Cloak sporting splotches of grey here and there.

Tony swallowed at the sight.

Ashes. Grey.

_Inevitable._

Tony squeezed his fingers tight into the palms of both hands, breathed hard in and out through his nose, as his therapist taught him.

“Sorry I’m late,” Strange said, unlocking the Cloak. Tony watched it shake off the dust like a dog, then float behind its Master. “Had a bit of trouble. Did I miss anything?”

Wong nodded over to where Tony sat. “Just a patient visitor.”

Tony felt nothing when Strange turned and stared right at him. He couldn’t hear the man’s next words, because he heard the cacophony again, the loud shriek of broken guitar strings and nails on chalkboard, saw the ashes and the blood and warped steel and then so much _pain_ —

And then it stopped.

It just _stopped._

Tony refocused on the world around him.

Strange knelt in front of him, his yellow-gloved hands hovering over Tony’s knees, a light glow of orange coming from the tips. The energy felt warm, gentle, like the aftermath of a good massage. Little by little, Tony felt his breath calm, the sweat that collected on his brow and upper lip cooling his clammy skin, his fingers unclenching from his palms.

As the light died off from Strange’s hands, he said, “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” Tony swallowed, clearing his raw throat. “You said that already.”

For a second, Strange’s stoic visage cracked, and Tony saw surprise, sadness, regret, then the wall fell back down again.

He came back to his feet and offered a gloved hand to Tony.

Without a word said, Tony took it.

In the past, patience and Tony Stark never saw eye-to-eye. But nearly dying more times than he’d care to count, not to mention Thanos, changed him. So Tony was fine waiting a half hour more in Strange’s personal quarters so the man could take a shower from whatever he was doing prior. He was grateful for it.

When Strange returned, he wore fresh new robes, this time all in deep blue. The Cloak hovered nearby as he entered, a faithful servant as always. Strange waved him off with a hand, and the totem returned back to its corner in the room.

Tony watched him from where he sat, next to a bookcase and a window. He watched Strange pick up a cup from a wooden table in the room, and in an instant, hot steam rose from the white china.

“I assume you don’t want tea,” Strange said.

“I don’t care either way.”

“And I assume you didn’t come for small talk either.” He took a long sip, walking over to where Tony was, taking the seat across his.

“It would be better than what you’ve given me so far,” Tony said.

“I didn’t think you’d want to speak to me.”

“Bullshit. You were afraid to talk to me.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were afraid to tell me the truth.”

Strange closed his mouth, the retort dying on his breath. He rested the cup on a conjured small plate. His head bowed, gaze downcast on the liquid, lips curled into a frown.

From somewhere in the quiet room, a clock gently ticked and tocked.

Light bounced off the china Strange held in his hands, reflecting onto Tony’s bare, synthetic arm.

Strange took another sip, closing his eyes.

Tony broke the silence. “You knew.” He leaned forward as Strange finished, cup clinking on to the plate. “All of those fourteen million outcomes, and you knew this one would straight-up _ruin me_ , and you couldn’t even say ‘sorry’ to my damn face.”

“Yes, Tony, I couldn’t.” When Stephen lifted his head, he stared right at Tony, unafraid, unemotional. “I couldn’t tell you because I hated what I did to you. The Time Stone gave me fourteen million six hundred and five outcomes and none of them, _none_ , were as good as the one we got now. But all of them involved you, at the expense of you. I knew what would happen. I knew what you would go through after, what you’d have to endure, even now. But it was the only way, Tony. It wasn’t fair, but—”

“I don’t give a shit about that. It had to happen the way it did. I’ve made peace with that.” Tony leaned forward in his seat. “You could’ve at least shown up, Strange. Not waited until I almost passed out in the hospital. Not waited a month and a half until now, until I showed up on your front doorstep and forced you to man up.”

Strange sat back in his chair, gaze never wavering, despite the obvious discomfort on his face. “Yes.”

“You should’ve done this sooner.” Tony’s vision blurred. “I deserve that.”

“You do.”

“I fucking _hate_ you.”

“I know.”

“You’re the reason I have these nightmares, why I have to be on these pills, why I’m doing therapy for my body and my brain all at once. You’re the one who gave up the Time Stone and made the choice on that outcome and caused all those people to vanish, including Peter for God’s sake. And while I know my rationale brain says it was the only one that showed we won, I’m still _furious_.” Tony leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face a few times until it smacked on the chair cushion. “But you know what the fucked up thing is?” He chuckled, looking down at the top of his thighs. “There’s a part of me that’s glad you chose me. Or the universe, whatever. Because at least I got a chance to do things right. I got the chance to help everyone and be at peace finally.” He sighed, sinking back into his chair. “I can rest.”

In Tony’s preview, he watched a yellow-gloved hand hover over his thigh, hesitate, then rest down on the knee.

“Tony… conveying my thanks for your sacrifice will never be enough, nor will my want of how much I wish I could take away the pain you’ve gone through. But I can promise you this.” Strange squeezed his knee, the faint shake of his fingers seeping through his jeans. “I will help you, however I can, whenever I can. No matter what.”

For a moment, Tony rested his own hand over Strange’s. With a gentle squeeze of his own, he lifted it away. Strange took his back right after.

Tony took a deep breath and lifted his gaze back to Strange’s. On the exhale, he said, “Well, there is one thing you can help with.”

“Anything.”

His lips curled into a small smile.

In Newark New Jersey, if one was able to look past the blinding light coming from the waning sun and look to the rooftop of the Prudential Center, they’d find the savior of the cosmos and a Master of the Mystic Arts eating chicken arepas, drinking tamaraid _jarritos_ and watching rows and rows of fans enter the arena for the first concert in the USA since the Vanished returned and Thanos entered the history books.

They didn’t speak much as they ate and people-watched. Strange didn’t complain, only said he liked Springsteen too. As if Tony would’ve given him a choice.

If one was even more savvy, one might have seen hidden side stage Tony Stark and Doctor Strange singing along to Born in the USA, belting the lyrics to Rosalita, and losing themselves in the iconic saxophone solo of Jungleland.

But no one saw them. None of Springsteen roadies and crew, none of the fans in attendance, not even Springsteen himself. Magic helped so much for staying incognito.

When the evening ended, Tony took the offered portal back to his place in Upstate New York. He turned to say goodbye, only to find the Doctor in his personal space, extending a hand.

“Thank you, Tony.”

He took it. “Thank you, Strange.”

“Stephen.”

Tony smiled. “Stephen.” He pulled his hand away and gave the man a wave.

Stephen smiled as well, nodded back in turn, and in a blink, the portal closed.

It wasn’t easy being alone at night in his old place. Everything was too dark, too new. Pepper refurnished the place and cleaned it up while he was gone, and while he appreciated it, everything seemed to be off. Tony blinked a few times to clear his vision when he swore things were turning grey, as if ashes were falling into his vision, but he stayed centered on the world around him. He had the tools to keep his mind in the present and now, not about what was then. Practice, his therapist said. Every episode is practice. 

When he laid his cheek down on his cool pillow and covered himself in the weighted duvet, Tony felt at ease. Tonight, sleep would come easy. Hopefully dreamless, but comforting sleep.

The dreams came though. No grey, no fire, no pain or sound, but something different. Different colors. Accents zipping across the black void of nothingness at top speed, of pulsing purple and yellow, green and blue, bright blistering red and a warm orange. A living kaleidoscope of color that almost felt comforting to Tony. Almost.

Because beneath those colors, he heard something, from a world ago, a lifetime ago, and it haunted him when he woke the next day, his face ashen white and skin cold.

_Inevitable._

_Run from it._

_Run to this._

_It’s inevitable._

_Because it will simply **be**._


	2. Rats

It took Tony two days to admit to himself he had a problem, and two more days to finally approach the only person who could possibly help him. His therapist and the skills he acquired over time only did so much for him after waking up. Logic didn’t help. Reasoning didn’t matter. The drugs would be temporary. Alcohol wasn’t an option. Stephen was the last resort he had.

There was no phone to call, so Tony showed up to the front steps of the Sanctum on Bleeker Street again, knocking on the door with less gusto than he did the last time he was here.

This time, Stephen answered the door though, not dressed in the usual garb Tony was used to seeing. No robes, no Cloak, just regular faded blue jeans, flannel grey shirt and white undershirt.

“Tony, what brings you…” He frowned. “Something’s wrong.”

He didn’t have a moment to reply, or to resist when Stephen jerked him inside and lead him to a couch. His body felt like jelly, his vision glossed over, the lack of good sleep disorienting his motor and mental skills.

He let Stephen lay him back on the couch, let him put a cool towel over his eyes and forehead, let him pull a blanket over his body, let him warm his body with the ghost of glowing fingertips, the orange light tickling the skin underneath his hoodie. Any other time, he would’ve fought tooth and nail. But Stephen could be trusted. Stephen could help.

He had to help, because nothing else worked. Nothing else helped. Tony wasn’t in control of himself anymore, and that scared him more than the nightmares themselves.

The next thing he felt was the towel leaving his eyes and his vision returning. Stephen leaned over him, now dressed in his usual robes, crouched down on the floor, next to the couch.

“Better?” he asked.

Tony nodded.

“Had to use a bit of magic to make sure you had dreamless sleep. Looks like you needed it.” He rested a brass mug next to Tony’s hip, steam rising from within. “You can rest more if you’d like, but I figured you might want some coffee first.”

He took the mug in both his hands and sat up on the couch, downing the brown liquid in a few gulps. With a swipe of his hand to his lips, Tony said, “It won’t fucking stop.” He rested the mug between his legs, staring ahead at the brown walls. “I don’t feel right.”

“Physically?”

“I wouldn’t rule that out, but no. The nightmares I have. That’s no surprise considering what we all went through, but this feels worse. It’s this… general feeling of—” Tony waved his hands in the air, lips forming different words until he settled on the right one: “ _Wrongness_. This feeling of ‘should not be’ and yet it does and it shouldn’t.” He rubbed the palm of one hand against his forehead. “I don’t fucking get it. Everything I’ve done doesn’t work and I’m at my wits end. I’m tired of it. I thought I could rest, but something inside me, inside my brain, it won’t stop. It won’t go away. I need it to stop.”

“I can help.”

“Can you?” He turned to Stephen, red-rimmed eyes and pale skin and dried lips.

“You just have to trust me.”

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”

Stephen smiled.

It didn’t take long for Stephen to have a solution. In fifteen minutes, the Master of the Mystic Arts held in his hand a thick string of beige cloth, the kind one would use for a simple necklace, with a silver clasp at the end. It glowed faintly of orange, enchanted with whatever magic Stephen used, and Tony hesitated, a sharp bolt of fear striking through his heart and chilling his blood cold.

He showed none of it aloud when he said, “That’s it. A necklace.”

“You’d rather wear something flashier?”

“Well, duh.”

“It’s a ruin of protection, Tony.”

“It’s a shoelace.”

Stephen rolled his eyes. “It will protect you from having those nightmares again and won’t be obvious to anyone. Now take it before I change my mind.”

“Fine, fine.” Tony took the necklace from Stephen’s yellow-gloved hand, the glow dying off instantly. He clasped it around his neck. “Such a cheapskate.”

“You can add your own jewelry to it, you know.”

“No way. I’m not adding anything to this shoelace. It probably can’t even handle a sterling silver charm.”

“You’re welcome.” When Tony finished flattening down his shirt over the necklace, Stephen asked, “You’ll tell me if it works, right?”

“Yup.” He looked up, right at Stephen—and froze in place.

Instead of Stephen, there was ash, grey, blood and smoke. Instead of the Sanctum, there was burning, steel melting, ground cracking, screaming and crying. Instead of the world around him, there was rotting flesh, maggots and rats, decay and a bright red light.

He choked on the bile rising in his throat.

_Run._

Tony’s vision blurred.

_Run from it._

So much death around him. Every one he ever knew, every single one fought for their lives against ungodly creatures not of this world. They fought and screamed but with every attack, every stab, every kick, they were losing. Everyone was losing, and he couldn’t do anything to stop this. He couldn’t help.

His body shook all over. Nlood ran down his right arm, dripping down his fingertips. A fire scorched his veins inside, up to his neck, up to his temple, his shoulder on fire, his legs on fire, everything burning and clawing away and eating him alive eating him _WHOLE_ —

“TONY!”

He gasped.

Above him stood Stephen, two yellow gloves grasping his face.

“It’s okay,” he heard Stephen whisper. From his chest, Tony felt an soft, warm glow radiate across his collarbones, seep into his lungs and untwist whatever was clenching his heart. “It’s okay, Tony. You’re safe. You’re safe…”

He blacked out to the sound of Stephen’s soothing words.

Tony awoke to the sound of soft whispers. He blinked his eyes open, turning his head to the source. On the other side of the room—of his own bedroom—he found Stephen and Pepper standing near the doorframe, talking low. Pepper touched Stephen’s arm, a small sad smile on her face, before she ducked out of the room. 

Stephen turned around, startled when they made eye-contact. “You’re awake.”

“Yes, Virginia. Great observation.” Tony coughed to clear his throat, pushing up on a forearm to sit up. His free hand went to the side of his temple, a dull pounding crossing from one side of his head to the other. “Shit.”

“You fell and hit your head before I could catch you.”

“Least you tried. Got any Advil?”

Two pills landed in Tony’s lap from thin air. A gloved hand passed a glass of water into his vision. He grabbed both as he sat up, swallowing the drugs as he took his surroundings. The clock read a little past 4PM—three hours after he last remembered appearing at the Sanctum. Nothing else was in disarray, save his bed covers. They had all spilled to the floor in his sleep, leaving him with just the clothes he wore earlier today, sans shoes.

“I’m sorry,” Stephen said. “I thought the ruin was strong enough to help.”

He looked down at his hands, the synthetic one colored a shade lighter than his real one. Even now, he could make out where the blood was, the dirt, the Infinity Stones on each of his knuckles blinding his vision and burning his skin.

“Like I said.” Tony clenched his hands. “Least you tried.”

“I made it stronger while you slept. That should help—”

“Even if it doesn’t, it’s fine. I should’ve known better. I don’t get an easy out. It’s okay, though. The world is safe, everything’s back to normal, and I’m haunted by nightmares no matter if I’m awake or asleep. Whatever.” He swung his legs off the bedside, coming to his shaky feet. “It’s a needed trade-off.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

He stood up and shrugged. “Is what it is.”

“It’s not fair.”

“Life usually isn’t. Mine especially.”

He felt gloved fingers touch his real forearm. “Tony—”

“Go home, Stephen.” He jerked his arm away, walking out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

When Tony came back with a fresh cup of coffee and a PB&J sandwich, Stephen was nowhere to be found. He ignored the small ping of regret that weighed his chest down.

The next day, Tony sequestered himself into his workshop, tinkering on a potential upgrade to his arm. Pepper only bothered him twice for something SI related, and to his relief, didn’t ask for how he was doing. She just gave him a small look of worry, and he assured her with a smile. Of course, she didn’t look relieved, but she let him be.

Sleep was better that night. No dreams. No nightmares. Just pure black nothingness. He felt better than he had the last two months since Thanos. It would take years of similar sleep like that to get him back to normal, but that depended on whatever ‘incidents’ he had during waking hours.

Throughout the day, though, nothing like yesterday happened. No waking nightmares. No visions. He was able to focus and work and finish a little past one o’clock in the afternoon. Maybe it was a one-off, maybe it was a fluke and it would happen any moment—but Tony appreciated the semblance of normalcy, for once.

He touched the beige cloth around his neck, fingers grazing over the fabric. Tony frowned as the image of Stephen’s worried, downtrodden face came to mind.

“FRIDAY?” he asked.

“Yes, boss?”

“I need the number of a pizza place near Bleeker Street.”

An hour later, Tony heard a ping from his cell phone. On one of his holographic monitors, he opened it up and a large grin crossed his face as he read the text.

_Next time, get me real pizza. Not Papa John’s. Cheapskate._

A few seconds later, Stephen sent another text: _I’m assuming it worked?_

Tony texted back a thumbs-up emoji, then added Stephen’s number to his phone.

When he finished, Stephen replied: _I’m glad._

The rest of the day, he and Stephen texted back and forth, and the nightmares didn’t come the entire time he was awake, nor when Tony was asleep that evening.


	3. Faith

Two weeks later, after full nights of dreamless sleep and the beginning of an honest-to-god semblance of routine in his life, Tony called up Stephen. Never did he think he would voluntarily call him, not after what happened with Thanos. But his therapist four days ago brought up the concept of “gentle discomfort,” of trying things that might seem utterly uncomfortable at first, but to only do just a little bit, and then assess afterwards if pursuing it was the right decision or not.

So a phone call to someone he hadn’t spoken to in two weeks since asking for his help was right up there in the category of that “gentle discomfort.” Someone he used to harbor an ungodly amount of hate for. Hate he couldn’t muster up even as he scrolled through his phone to find Stephen’s number.

The man didn’t pick up on the first few rings. It didn’t bother Tony in the least when an automated robotic voice stated each number aloud, one by one. The clutch of anxiety around his lungs released with a sigh passing through his dry lips.

He fingered the cloth around his neck as he left a simple message. “I owe you better pizza. Meet me at John’s at 5.”

When he strolled out of the town car onto the front steps of John’s of Bleeker Street hours later, there was no Stephen to be found. Not inside the establishment either. He hid his disappointment with a smile as the shocked, wide-eyed gasps of every person within fifty feet noticed him and zeroed in to his direction. Happy stayed by his side they flocked to him, phones in hand. Selfie after selfie, handshake after handshake, hugs and praise and shouts galore, Tony endured it. Endured, because this wasn’t what he came for, nor what he wanted. Not right now.

But he met with that crowd, a crowd that grew and grew more than he lingered, waiting, scanning. He gave up after ten minutes and exited, zeroing in on the town car. Behind him, Happy waved away any who vied for his further attention.

The second he closed the door, a large pizza box landed on his lap.

Tony startled and jerked his head to the left, where Stephen Strange sat in full sorcerer regalia, holding a piece of cheese with one hand, the Cloak waving to him while holding a paper napkin.

“You’re late,” Stephen said.

“By only ten minutes!”

“Twelve.”

“That’s a record for me, you know.”

“Still late.”

“So you decide to punish me—” Tony jerked his thumb towards the crowd outside the town car window. “By making me think I was stood up?”

“You’re lucky I knew _which_ John’s you spoke of.”

“Of course it’d be the one on Bleecker. It’s near your place _and_ the best pizza in Manhattan.”

“You mean ‘Lombardi’s’.” Stephen took a chunk out of the pizza, crust first.

“That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen,” Tony said.

Stephen rolled his eyes. The Cloak dabbed his cheeks.

“Seriously. What’s next, pulling out a fork and knife to eat the rest? Actually, no. Don’t answer that. I might have to hurt you if you said yes.” Tony jerked open the box, observing the way Stephen’s lips curled into a smile as he chewed. His own lips twitched upwards as Happy opened the driver’s side of the town car, sliding in. “Take a few laps around the block, Hap.”

“You got it, boss,” Happy said, eyeing Tony in the rear-view mirror, and then doing a double take who was beside him. He jerked around, bug-eyed and jaw-dropped. “How the hell—”

“He’s a sorcerer, comes with the territory.” He took his own chunk out of his slice, front first, as he hit the privacy window button. Whatever Happy muttered after didn’t reach Tony’s ears.

It wasn’t the only time they met up. Over the summer, they would repeat the venture to meet for a meal, usually lunch, occasionally an early dinner, eating a large pepperoni inside the comfort of Tony’s town car while Happy drove in circles around John’s on Bleecker. The conversations they had were benign. What music they were listening to. Any movies or television shows they watched lately. How their respective worlds were doing, with as little detail as possible shared, but neither pried the other much for more.

Sometimes their meetings lasted a few minutes, either because Tony was running late for something else, or Stephen wanted to make it somewhere a few minutes ahead of schedule. Sometimes they lasted a cool hour, ending usually when Happy complained about circling the neighborhood so many times. To Tony, the amount of time didn’t matter, so much as the frequency. It went from once a week to two times to three.

Two months later, the end of the summer arrived, and the pizza became secondary to their inane conversations. To Tony, talking to Stephen became as routine as brushing his teeth, except he enjoyed doing the former. When he told his therapist this, she smiled from ear-to-ear and praised him for adding something to his self-care routine, or as she called it, his “personal cocktail of happiness,” which was both self-care and drugs. There was a little nag in the back of his head, a nag that oozed over his mind, down his face and spread a blanket of disappointment over his lungs, all because she didn’t inquire further about their relationship. But there were other pressing matters for him to address.

It stayed the same between the two of them, same place, same everything, until Tony showed up one early September and Stephen announced out of the blue: “Let’s go somewhere.”

“What?”

“Central Park’s nice this time of the year.”

Happy whipped his head around from the front seat before Tony could speak. “I’ll have us there in 20 minutes, sir.” Then put up the divider, hitting the power button to the town car’s engine.

“Hey!” Just as the divider closed, Tony yelled, “I pay your salary, you know!”

Behind the muffled divider, Happy shouted back, “Not anymore you don’t!” The engine roared to life.

Tony laughed as the town car picked up speed, jerking forward as Happy drove away fast from the pizza parlor. He picked up a slice from the box sitting them, held in place by the Cloak. “Guess I finally broke Happy, huh?”

“Eh, probably,” Stephen said. “Matter of time.”

“I should ask Pep to give him a raise.”

“That’s considerate.”

“Or a fruit basket. Candy. Nuts and no nuts. Maybe just fudge. Or one of those gigantic candy bars you can find in Vegas. Should it be dairy free, maybe? Sugar free? Cripes, you know what, I have no idea if he has any dietary restrictions.”

“Just pay him, Tony.”

“Yeah, you’re right, he can get his own basket.” He finally bit into his slice, ignoring Stephen’s eye-roll.

Moments later, the town car started up, heading towards uptown. To Tony’s surprise, Stephen didn’t talk much on the way over. He expected a few questions once the car began moving, even the most obvious one, like why Stephen asked Happy to take them to Central Park. Or why he decided to change their routine on today of all days, if there was special about this day or if he truly just felt like it. But nothing. Stephen sat on his side of the town car, staring out the window and eating slice after slice with him.

Frustration and confusion bubbled in the back of Tony’s throat, but he swallowed it down with each bite. _Gentle discomfort_ , his therapist said. Utterly uncomfortable at first, but taken in a small dose, then assess later after that one dose if it was worth it.

He glanced at Stephen as they reached their destination.

_If this is worth it._

Once there, they walked side by side through the park, the silence overbearing between the two of them. More than once, a passerby or two stopped them, usually Tony, for a selfie and a chat. Tony obliged each one with Stephen standing by the side, arms twined behind his back.

It stayed like that between them for almost a good half hour, the silence broken by the sound of people’s gasps, people’s kind words, the click of an iPhone, some children laughing, a few trees rustling from the wind, horns honking and the distinct rhythm of tires on pavement.

To Tony, this was gentle discomfort steamrolling headfirst into pure discomfort, something his therapist said was not okay, something his therapist said he had total control over to fix. And he did. The solution was obvious and simple at this point. He could say something to Stephen. Anything. Like ‘thank you’ or ‘screw you’ or ‘fuck you.’ There was zero reason for this silence between them, especially after the last two months and all their silly conversations—and even before that too, when Stephen and he met before, with the ruin. It would all be solved if Tony made the choice to finally speak up. Problem was, his therapist hadn’t started addressing Tony’s stubbornness issue, and he wasn’t about to cave in first. Not when he was already doing all this ‘gentle discomfort’ to begin with.

The sun settled as they walked towards the middle of the park, a golden hue sweeping across the trees, painting the leaves lighter and the ground redder. Tony clenched his fists as he stared at the red dirt passing beneath his feet, kicking up dust – _ash_ – onto his shoes, and a sting of memory, of _fear_ , slithered up his spine and right to the back of his eyes.

His throat constricted. His vision stung. All this red. Ashes and dust and maggots and festering rats spread across carcasses and bones. Blood, too much blood, poured over his shins, down to his ankles, shooting _pain_ everywhere and he could see it, he could sense it, the inevitable just waiting for him—

Tony snapped his eyes shut, stopping in place.

Slowly, he took a long, deep breath. Held it. Sipped in a bit more air. The telltale sign of tingling at his chest and throat felt nice. Whether that was his own bodily response, or the ruin doing its job, it didn’t matter.

A long, loud sigh oozed out through his parted lips.

When Tony opened his eyes, he searched for Stephen and found the man standing right beside him, still with his hands behind his back. But the concern was obvious and apparent in his look and his demeanor. The man now closed the earlier gap between them to mere inches.

In Stephen’s green-eyed stare, he found more than just simple concern. There was fear, a kind of palpable fear that Tony himself saw in the mirror when his thoughts became too much—when the smell of ashes and coagulated blood overwhelmed his senses and he wasn’t in the bathroom or living room or his own lab but somewhere he never, ever wanted to be again. He knew that fear, that look. The fear and the anxiety, the uneasy underbelly of _did I help_ and _is it over_ and _am I enough_. Tony understood that look and its layers all too well.

So he responded to that look with a small, little smile, and a shrug of his shoulders. He parted his mouth to say something, say anything, but he closed it shut, only to release a small _psh_ through his pursed lips as he looked down at the ground.

The wind picked up as Stephen reached for Tony’s bicep and rested gloved fingertips over the top. Light pressure followed, easing over the creases of his windjacket.

“You’ve gotten better,” Stephen finally said. “I’m glad it’s working.”

Tony glanced away. “Well, yeah, of course it is, the ruin’s doing—”

“Not just that.” Stephen’s hand squeezed his arm. “You were well into the hard work before it came into the picture. I merely offered assistance. Nothing more.”

He watched Stephen’s gloved hand retreat from his arm, leaving his line of sight.

The wind pushed a gust of power between their bodies, fluttering colorful leaves and small sticks across the ground, the sign of a late summer transforming to early autumn.

Tony cleared his dry throat once, twice.

Eventually, he rasped out, “Thanks.”

“Thank _you_ , Tony.”

_Nope, too much, not taking that, nope._ His eyes stung, jerking his head up _gentle discomfort gentle discomfort gentle discomfort_ forcing a wide smile as he looked at Stephen—and he paused.

The fake smile he wanted to give transformed into a genuine one the second Tony saw Stephen’s face. It was a look he didn’t expect from this man, but it was one he welcomed.

A look of pure, unadulterated joy, all directed at him.

In that moment, those unexplainable feelings of _nope_ evaporated. This man, the one who put him in this position, who knew what would happen to him, who Tony thought he would hate for the rest of his life—he was looking at Tony without pity, without sorry, but joy. _For_ him.

_I could kiss him._

The thought caused no shock, no surprise in Tony. Instead, Tony allowed himself to grin wider, coming closer to Stephen, closing the gap between them.

To Tony’s chagrin, Stephen stayed perfectly stoic and controlled.

He pushed to his tip-toes, coming dangerously close to Stephen’s face, wrapping an arm around Stephen’s shoulders.

Not once did Stephen break.

But he _did_ make a small _oof_ when Tony jerked Stephen to his side, yanked out his iPhone with the other hand and swiped right for the photo app.

“Selfie time!”

He clicked the side of the iPhone the instant Tony swiped his pinky across the underside of Stephen’s earlobe.

When he pulled away, he found Stephen’s cheeks a nice, rosy pink, that stoic composure utterly ruined, for once. He pushed down the need to gloat as he checked the photo, finding it harder to not cheer when he noticed he got Stephen’s blush on camera forever. Even better—the Cloak got in on this too, giving a small wave on Stephen’s right side.

“Totally going on my Instagram later,” Tony said, clicking the iPhone off.

“Ugh.” Stephen rubbed his neck, his flushed demeanor disappearing. “Could you not?”

“Get me dessert and I’ll consider it.”

“Brat.”

“Jerk.”

“Keep that up and I’ll send you to Jersey.”

“Better than Florida.”

He couldn’t help feeling a little pleased with himself when Stephen broke again and barked out a loud laugh on top of his lungs.

Two ice cream cones later at a nearby shop, wherein multiple people stopped by their table for a chat and a million selfies, Happy dropped them off at Tony’s penthouse, at Stephen’s insistence. “I can easily get myself home,” he said, and Tony went with it. He was closer anyway, considering they were in Uptown now. Less driving around, more recovering from his sugar coma.

Once parked at the steps of his penthouse entrance, Tony turned to Stephen, offering him a hand. “See you around?”

Stephen took that hand—and jerked him in, shoving their lips together.

His body stiffened, shock stiffening him in place, his eyes blown wide. His free hand instantly went to Stephen’s chest, pushing him away, but Stephen tightened his hold on Tony, while at the same time, leaning away enough to cease the incessant pressure on his lips.

Tony stared right at Stephen’s squinted tight eyes, his long eyelashes, the pores of his skin, the light scarring, the wisp of hair falling over his forehead.

The utter desperation in his hold. The need, and the fear, radiating in waves from his body, unfiltered and naked bare for Tony to see.

Stephen held nothing back.

Tony closed his eyes. He slid his hand up Stephen’s chest to his neck, cupping it.

In return, Stephen’s hand let his go, only to wrap around the back of Tony’s head and tilt it gently to the side. Tony responded by parting his lips open.

Tongue met tongue, heat blazing upon heat. Gentle permission and desperation as one, each time Stephen touched Tony. A shudder vibrated into Tony’s neck from Stephen’s hand, and Tony felt himself tremor too. Beard scratched beard, red rising on skin. _Fuzzy_ , he thought. _Warm_. Stephen tasted a little bit of sweet, a little bit of citrus, and he gasped when Stephen ran the tip of his tongue around the rim of his lips. Two gloved hands now cupped Tony’s neck, tilting him up, and Stephen delved deeper, nose brushing nose, spreading heat across Tony’s upper lip, past his flushed cheeks and down.

The world spun hard. His face scorched. Each labored breath Tony took, Stephen seemed to suck inside himself, taking him in, pulling him deep. But there was no fear, no uncertainty in this turn of events. Stephen knew what he was doing, what he was creating, and Tony was okay with it. Tony was okay. Tony was…

_Safe._

A sharpness struck behind Tony’s eyelids.

_I’m safe._

Stephen ended the kiss, lingering near Tony’s lips as he pressed their foreheads together.

Tony listened the twin cacophony of their labored breathing.

A knock on the town car’s door jerked the two of them away, followed by Happy’s voice. “Ready to go?”

It took a moment for Tony to find his voice, and another to clear it. “Y-Yeah,” he said. “Give me a second.”

Stephen slid his hands away from Tony’s neck, back to his lap, simply staring.

Tony felt his lips move, but no sound came out. Nothing. He gestured his hands to his mouth, his face, his torso, then collapsed his arms back into his own lap, shaking his head.

A small, squeaky _hah_ passed through his lips, squeaky and undefined.

Stephen chuckled, a small grin adorning his flushed cheeks. He took out his sling ring, never looking away from Tony as he created a portal inside the town car.

“Goodnight Tony,” he said. And he stepped through, the portal closing with a gentle burst of orange and gold sparks.

Tony stared in the direction Stephen exited, his hand occasionally coming up to his lips, and then down to the ruin, resting comfortably over his chest, where the arc reactor used to be.

An hour later, Tony laid in bed shirtless, staring at his phone with one hand while holding the ruin in his other. He analyzed that photo in the pure darkness of his room, save the yellow light coming from the screen before him.

A beautiful backdrop of Central Park. The Cloak, giving a tiny wave to the camera. Tony’s shit eating grin to hide the discomfort he felt in that moment. Stephen’s flushed cheeks, the small wobbliness in his shy smile, and the way Tony’s fingers rested behind his earlobe, almost stroking it a little. _A sensitive spot_ , he mused, and it must’ve been the reason why Stephen reacted the way he did tonight.

Tony squeezed his hand around the ruin.

The reason why Stephen kissed him like he did.

And there it was. He had the evidence. Evidence not only about Stephen, but evidence that things were truly okay, that Tony was really moving on, that what happened today and tonight _was_ real, and there wasn’t any going back. Everyone was going to be okay. He was going to be okay. He didn’t have to think about then, or what could be. For the first time in his life, Tony could focus on the now, the present, here and today, and know it would be okay. He was truly okay.

He thumbed Stephen’s face on the photo.

“Friday?” he asked aloud.

“Yes, boss?”

“Print this out and frame it for me.”

“Will do.”

He clicked the side of the iPhone, plugged it in and rest it on his nightstand, turning to his side and shutting his eyes.

That night, Tony dreamt of red skies and blood on the ground, of rats and ashes and the smell of decay. But it didn’t last long, and he fell back to sleep after he woke up from the first nightmare. If he had a second nightmare, he didn’t remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a while since I wrote anything. I got into a major accident and had to do rehab, then re-injured my hand, so typing has been a nightmare for the last two weeks, but I've tried. :) I hope this story is OK.


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